


Eat

by HackdrawerMcHugglesWorthRivertonThe3rd



Category: One Piece
Genre: Food Horror, Gen, Horror, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 11:22:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20965745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HackdrawerMcHugglesWorthRivertonThe3rd/pseuds/HackdrawerMcHugglesWorthRivertonThe3rd
Summary: Sanji begins "seeing" things in the food he cooks.





	Eat

_ **\- Eat -** _

* * *

It started off as a whistling sound – a mimicry of wind easing its way between a narrow opening. Something easily dismissed if one weren't paying attention to it. But it eventually caused him to tune out the happy noises on deck to focus on that one sound. Stilling with a knife hoovering over half a carrot, Sanji listened. The whistling sounded like someone was doing mechanically as they focused their mind on some other task – an unconscious gesture of concentration. But it was close by – a turnaround from the counter showed him that he was the only one in the kitchen.

Hearing shriek of laughter, he shrugged off the peculiar noise and continued cutting. Time was spent then user a shaper to force cut carrot rounds into flower heads – the shreds he used to scrape into a container to use for later. He dumped the flower shaped carrots into the bubbling pot nearby, and the whistling sound seemed to change tone. It seemed higher pitched, scrambled. Almost like mangled shrieking. Sanji paused to focus on the sound, furrowing his forehead as the wooden cutting board dangled over the lip of the pot. He removed it, setting it down hastily and hunched his shoulders in order to somehow pinpoint the nature of the sound.

He assumed it was just the sound of cooking, and shrugged again. Picking up a bundle of spring onions, he washed, separated and chopped quickly.

From the boiling pop came an unexpected burst, causing him to jerk ever so slightly as he looked over. Figuring the flames were too high, he twisted the knob slightly and continued to watch the pot with a puzzled expression. Another popping sound followed a burst of colored and flavored water that spilt over the pot's lip, dashing the flames below. Potatoes seemed to billow up dangerously, threatening to spill and he quickly removed the pot from the flame.

The pot was then set down to a cold burner, where Sanji used a ladle to stir it with a puzzled expression. The fragrance coming from it was expected – heavenly and promising. The pieces of meat were plump and juicy, potatoes brilliantly white. He'd only had to skin them – they were perfectly sized to set into the pot as is.

As he deposited the ladleful back into the pot, he noticed a few potatoes turning over with black spots – causing him to quickly scoop them out for their imperfections. He whipped out a smaller pot and deposited those into that, adding some juice and side pieces for an even mixture. He turned the flame on low, and redeposited the bigger pot back onto the burner. The flame was lower when he turned it, and the broth began to bubble lightly – normally.

Puzzled, Sanji flicked through the bigger pot's contents to search for more imperfect potatoes. Finding none, he set the ladle aside and looked over at the potato skins he'd left in a peach colored bowl. Luffy screamed from somewhere on the ship, which caused him to hastily continue cutting and preparing – occasionally checking on the two pots bubbling quietly atop of the stove.

When it was time to feast, the table was surrounded by its usual chaos and noise. Bowls and plates were emptied, glasses refilled, conversation either lulled by a single speaker or booming with all of them talking at once. A normal affair. Sanji was eating the serving he'd made separately, the incident out of his mind while he enjoyed conversation. As he spooned some potatoes into his mouth, his teeth expected the normal soft texture of spuds – but instead, a rich substance seemed to pop noticeably, intense moisture spilling over his tongue and teeth. His teeth crunched over something that snapped immediately under the force. It caused such a retched feeling that he stopped chewing immediately and deftly spilled the contents back into the bowl he'd nearly finished – subtly using a spoon to encourage the mess out of his mouth. To anyone who'd noticed, he looked as if he were spooning the remaining broth into his mouth.

He lowered the bowl ever so slightly to see a mixture of floating coils, dark red jelly matter instantly dissipating into the broth and what looked like fish bones – cracked and bent out of shape amidst the potato insides. Like broken ribs pulled from someone's mid-section. He almost retched – but he caught himself. Not wanting to alarm anyone but casting a frantic glance around to catch the faces of his friends, Sanji excused himself from the table. His mouth was salty and wretchedly foul with something intensely foreign and wrong for a potato.

Once at the counter, he used his spoon to push around the remaining mixture of tubers. Those black spots he'd noticed earlier were in particular form – like a snowman's face, decorated with coal. Only the black coloring bled, and the "mouths" were wide open to reveal a ghastly, muted death scream.

Frozen, Sanji wondered if he was actually seeing what he was seeing. The coils that floated around these potatoes spilled away from shredded midsections – still clinging to the tuber like intestines spilling from a human body. The red coloring was unmistakably blood and matter, and his hand went to his mouth as a retch snuck up on him hastily. He glanced at the others, all of them focused on Brook's tales; all laughing and having a merry time – eating from bowls that seemed to refill magically because all the men continued to help themselves and the women picked at salads and lighter fare.

Sanji looked down at the bowl again. _Surely_ he was mistaken. He was startled to see one of the potatoes moving – broth shimmering as that wide-open mouth began to slowly move and close. Bubbles began to pop up around it as the coils from its open insides began to twitch and flop – like worms inching towards cover. The vague shape of its head began to lift from the broth, turning and looking straight at Sanji.

So startled at this thing that Sanji hastily dumped the contents of the bowl into the sink, running the water. He mashed the rest of the stew's content down into the drain, using a spoon to do so until the potatoes were mashed, the coils were flicking down with the water like slithering worms, and the carrots left an orange impression on the steel.

"That's unusual of you," Robin commented lightly, startling him as he jerked away from the sink, her smile turning from concern to curiosity. She tapped at the corner of her own mouth. "Got a little _something_ right here."

Sanji wiped his mouth, looking down to see a smear of red on his skin. He hastily wiped his hands on his trousers. "Bit the inside of my cheek," he said with a fluster, hands slightly shaking. He could still taste that matter in his mouth – it was stuck within his teeth, lingering on his tongue. Salty jelly that seemed to cling to tooth and gum, flavor dissipating slowly with his welling spit. He wanted to brush his teeth and have a smoke – in that order.

He watched Robin cautiously as she set her empty bowl and utensils down into the sink, a light smile on her mouth. He wanted to ask her if anything was unusual about the meal, but he didn't want to draw alarm to it as well. His mind felt frozen with heavy doubt and horror that absolutely no words formed. He glanced back at the table to see that the stew was nearly gone – the pot hefted and lifted to Luffy's lips as he slurped the rest of the broth down, everyone complaining noisily.

"Is everything okay?" Robin asked Sanji again, lingering as she noticed his expression.

"_It's fine_," Sanji answered with a bright smile and a strained voice, and he hastily excused himself, hand creeping to his mouth as she watched him leave.

Once in the bathroom, he brushed his teeth twice – every time he spit, the froth was colored with red. Unidentifiable matter splattered against the bowl – he brushed twice, panic rising within every time he spit. It seemed that no matter how many times he brushed and spit, there was still matter leftover. As he smeared toothpaste back onto the brush for another frantic cleaning, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He opened his lips in a grimace to examine his teeth and realized that the water ran red because he'd brushed them raw. Earlier that morning, he'd noticed a faint bleeding, knowing it was a touch of gingivitis – thanks to smoking – and paused in mid-lift. He lowered the toothbrush, tongue examining his teeth to find them flavored with toothpaste and the taste of his own blood.

Impatiently, he washed his toothbrush under the water, tapped out the excess and put everything away. He gargled with the mixture Chopper had given him that afternoon to help with this touch of gingivitis, and when he spit and saw the red coloring, he left it at that.

He chose not to share with the others what happened – it just wouldn't do them any good.

: :

The next morning, he rolled his sleeves up as he examined the pantry for options. He had breakfast planned out, but they'd included potatoes. He had half a mind to avoid potatoes for awhile; but then he told himself he was only being silly. Last night was…some weird event. Lack of sleep, too much smokes – maybe tainted smokes. He picked up the burlap sack of potatoes and examined them before depositing them into a bowl. After setting the sack aside, he stared down at the bowl with consideration, hands on his hips.

He closed his eyes with exasperation, then proceeded to gather the rest of his ingredients. He didn't find anything unusual with the potatoes after he'd skinned them – no black spots. But as he pulled up the wrapped packed of salted pork, something unusual caught his attention. Maybe it was the placement of the meat atop of the cutting board, maybe Sunny made a sudden jerk due to the wakening sea, but it seemed to quiver between his hands. A light murmur of sound – similar to a cat in the midst of a stretch – tickled his ears.

Sanji dropped it with a hard suction of breath, nearly inhaling his cigarette. Staring at the wrapped package with alarm, the silence of the early morning and the emptiness of the kitchen seemed so much troubling than it ever did. The hum of solar-generated electricity was the only source of sound in the kitchen – but he'd distinctively heard and felt what he had. For several moments, he was stiff with incredulous feeling.

He exhaled noisily. "_Stop_ it," he ordered of himself, unwrapping the package and revealing the nicely colored section of expertly cut meat. Juices stained the package, dripping onto the board. The fat was beautifully creamy, the meat hued with pink and the smell normal of fresh slaughter. Sanji inhaled sharply and picked up his knife. He deftly sliced through the thick slab – every strip perfectly proportioned. He lined those up on a cookie sheet nearby, lightly chewing on the ever-present cigarette in his mouth. Something about that flavor caused him a moment's pause – blood.

He set down the knife and withdrew the cigarette to see the end faintly stained with red. He used his tongue to push at his irritated gums, looking for the area that was the angriest.

The faint murmur of the sound he'd heard earlier came back, cutting through the thick stillness of the kitchen. Sanji froze in mid-lick, unsure if he'd actually heard it. The murmur drew into a faint shuddering of a muffled sob, and he whirled around, heart thundering as he searched the remaining shadows of the kitchen for something that was there. _Something_ – not someone – because the sound wasn't quite strong enough to be human. It tickled at his ear drums – played with his senses on its exact pitch and intention.

He held his breath so he could hear it better, to pinpoint the direction it had come.

Something caught his attention from the corner of his eye, so he glanced in that direction. The remaining slab of salt pork seemed to glisten with extra moisture – oozing from sections of fat. The sight was unfamiliar – from his distance, it looked unusually soggy. He was quite positive that it wasn't that wet when he was cutting it. He turned and took the steps necessary to approach the counter, noticing that the excess liquid was blood red. It pushed up from between fat and meat, dark blue and thick before spilling over, bright red and runny.

_A vein_, he reasoned with himself. He was annoyed with how jumpy he was.

He lifted his hands to pick up the knife and resume cutting when he saw just how bloodied they were. Frozen, Sanji wasn't sure how to process the stark coloring on his skin, the liquid dripping from palms to wrist, to stain the rolled sleeves of his shirt. His cigarette fell out of his opening mouth, and that murmuring sound once again caught his attention. He looked over to see the slab of meat _move_.

It twitched ever so slightly atop of the cutting board, as if jolted by electricity. Liquid sloshed over the cutting board, splattering down onto the floor and cabinet doors below. With another twitch, it began to move ever so slightly across the cutting board – as if making a bid for escape. The murmur became a light baby's gurgle, liquid bubbling up from the meat, as if to carry the sound.

Mind frozen, Sanji reached for the knife. The meat began to give crying noises, twitching violently once the blade flashed from the light falling down from above them.

"Time to make it dead," Sanji said solemnly, marching forward and flattening his hand over the slab to hold it still.

He was startled to see the misshapen face there – created from crossing veins, pouches of pink meat and outlined by bubbling coils of fat. Heavy eyelids over empty sockets seemed to blink sleepily at him while a distorted line of a mouth attempted to open and close. From two slits between these features, nostrils flared. Blood bubbled from those slits and spilled over the sides, coloring the cutting board.

Sanji removed his hand like the thing had burned him. His knife fell with a clatter to the floor as the crying began to increase. The distorted mouth opened to reveal weakening tendons that broke and snapped, tongue pushing out as bloodied meat split apart to reveal a mouth-like cavern that was complete with a dangling uvula.

It cried, face twitching and lurching as it spilled tears of blood. "Please please _please_ please pLeAse_please_please**please** please!" it seemed to whisper frantically – a genderless voice tonal with the bubbling of liquid around its rapidly moving mouth.

Sanji hastily picked up the knife and hacked into the slab wildly.

It shrilled with screams, muffled by the shredding of its meat against his blade. Spurting with warm blood, matter splattering the counter and Sanji himself. Wildly, he stabbed and cut until the screams stopped and he was heaving for breath. He dropped the knife, the steel clattering noisily against the counter and dropping to the floor, reflecting the light from above. His breath was wheezy, and he tasted blood. There were salt pork pieces dangling from his face and jaw, and they fell from him in frenzied movements as he shifted away.

Once the silence evened out, he realized how reedy his breath sounded as it left him. His eyes felt wild and his blood pumped feverishly. His mind was in knots. He couldn't blink – watching the mound of hacked meat with a sense of incredulous shock. He was quite sure _something_ had happened – but he wasn't sure what. His teeth were salty with the taste of blood, and he quickly rolled his lips to clamp his mouth shut. His tongue worried raw parts of his gums with anxiety, and he realized his throat was clenched with fright.

He glanced away to take a breath. It felt like he'd been holding it for some time.

Sanji ventured closer to the mound of meat and was disturbed to see the face he'd seen hacked into mutilated pieces. Missing eyelids, slashed and ruined lips, a nose disconnected to reveal a moist nasal cavity – he clamped his bloodied hand to his mouth and whirled towards the sink. Dry heaving, he ran the water and struggled to stop the intense and building ringing in his ears. He used his palms to frantically clap over his ears, sputtering and coughing into the running water.

Then he hastily used dish soap to wash his hands and arms, scrubbing hard to get matter and blood off him. The smell of salt pork was strong – intensely thick and suffocating. His stomach roiled violently, and he retched. He turned his head in a bid to escape the scent. He needed a cigarette and a hard scrubbing shower.

: :

"Are you not eating, Sanji-kun?" Nami asked curiously as Sanji slurped down more coffee and watched his crewmates shovel in food as fast as they could while fighting off Luffy's stretchy hands.

"I already ate," Sanji lied smoothly, wearing an expression of light cheer. He glanced at the porridge in front of her, toast and tangerines arranged in a neat spiral design on a dinner plate. "How's your food?"

"_Scrumptious_. You made pork stew this early in the day?"

Instead of answering verbally, Sanji sipped at his coffee and nodded his head, looking over at the pot that had emptied within minutes. _He couldn't eat it_. He absolutely _couldn't_ – not after seeing that face, nor hearing its shrill death screams.

_I'm going mad_, he thought with frozen horror. _I'm going absolutely bat shit-crazy_.

Nami smiled at him prettily, noticing the rather stiff expression on his face. It caused hers to twist with slight inquiry before Luffy reached for her toast, and her attention was diverted to save it.

: :

Lunch was a tense concept. There was a sense of dread in him as the time inched towards his usual venture, and Sanji realized his hand was shaking as he smoked. He thought about this morning's events and had to shake his head. He gazed out over the sea, seagulls crying around them while Luffy screamed from the front. Explosions rang out from one of Ussop's newest projects – Zoro ended up shouting with exasperation while Nami arguing noisily with him and Brook laughed with merriment.

Sanji's mind shifted to his menu – his ingredients were easy to gather from the pantry, and it was going to be an easy meal. Sandwiches. Nothing about it should give him any…weird moments. But he swallowed tightly, tapping nicotine stained fingers against his dry lips. There was a taste at the back of his throat that was bothering him – _gingivitis_, he told himself impatiently. Nothing more.

He flicked the remnants of his cigarette over the railing and walked into the kitchen. His stomach, tightly upset with too much smoke and coffee, gurgled noisily. He was hungry. But he couldn't bear to eat with those upsetting images still fresh in his mind. The taste of the potato innards still on his tongue.

_Potatoes don't have innards_, he told himself angrily.

He swept shaking hands through his air and resolved to stop being a baby. He gathered everything he needed from the fridge and the pantry, then washed his hands. Once he had the plates ready, he began opening up the fresh packages of sandwich meat. At the smell of thinly sliced turkey, ham, salami and roast beef, Sanji felt his hands start to shake in earnest.

He ended up placing both palms down on the counter to compose himself.

_Stop it_, he thought. _Stop it_.

As he pulled a block of cheese from its snug container, he nearly dropped it. It landed on the counter with a soft grunt, and Sanji froze because the sound was very human. He stared at the block of cheese with its moist layering of condensation glistening against its brilliantly orange walls, cigarette clutched tightly between his teeth.

_No_, was the only word going through his mind at that quiet moment.

He made himself reach for it. The block of cheese gave a shiver within its grip, suddenly slippery. He had to use both hands to hold onto it. It moved with a quivering motion in an effort to escape, as combative as a fish. Wiggling from side to side, it uttered soft noises of effort. The sound was muffled, and a tickling sensation caused him to twist it around to see that his fingers had been coiled around the shape of a breast.

He dropped it like a hot coal. It hit the floor, rolling away from the counter with a soft titter of noise before flopping downward. Eyes wide and mind racing with utter apprehension, Sanji didn't know what to think. But he saw what he saw, and felt what he felt. His hand tingled with the knowledge of holding onto some sort of cheese titty.

_Those noises weren't_…feminine…_were they_? He had to question himself, mouth open with a slight gape.

The block of cheese began to slither over the floor. Sanji didn't know what to do. But his feet began to move after it, stomach roiling powerfully with agitation. The closer he drew to it, the better he was able to see the shape of it. It _was_ a breast. It seemed to ooze with moisture with each scraping slither it made. It was indecent, yet so wrongly _alive_– everything about this situation was wrong, and yet, with how it occurred, Sanji just couldn't believe he was seeing what he was seeing.

Throat dry, Sanji considered his options. But he had to consider the state of his mind. He used the tip of his shoe to stop the block of cheese's progress, and it gave a shiver that caused the jelly-like movement to shake. He closed his eyes with a mixture of horror and polite aversion before quickly bending forward to snatch it off the floor and throw it back on the counter.

It gave a reedy cry of shock once it hit – the sound caused every part of him to stiffen with regret and horror. It started to shake with what seemed like muffled crying.

"_Please no_," it seemed to whisper between tears, "please please _please_ no…! Stop this, please _stop_this…"

Sanji heard this, and snatched up his nearby dish towel. Grabbing the block of cheese and wrapping it within, he muffled the cries it made within his rough grasp. He strode for the doors and walked outside. His own skin flinched as he reached into the towel to pull it out, intending on throwing it into the sea.

It sailed out over the water without a sound, and Sanji felt relief in ridding of the thing that caused him this distress, certain it was over. But at the last second, Luffy's hand stretched out and snatched the block of cheese before the seagulls and the sea could. Sanji watched with mute horror as the rubber kid yanked it back and opened his mouth wide to accommodate the size.

When Luffy's teeth closed, white matter spurted outward from his mouth, showering him with milky liquid and pieces of what looked like wiggling fat. Sanji's mouth dropped open with revulsion as Luffy chewed noisily, giving his cook a puzzled look. Seconds later, his face shifted expression, and he spat out chunks of the jelly-like fat matter onto the deck. Along with chewed pieces of the darker areole, stingy lines that mimicked the look of veins.

Sanji felt another heave hit him as Luffy looked down at this with a puzzled look, giving Sanji a confused tilt of his head.

"Why are you throwing away perfectly good cheese, Sanji?" he asked, chewing on cheese that spilled with milk and curd. He had to slurp the liquid back, taking delight in preventing any escape. "It tastes fine to me!"

Because he didn't know what to say, Sanji returned to the kitchen.

: :

He was sweating with anxiety by the time it came to prepare dinner. His midsection felt like it was lit with fire from within – churning and burning as time began to pass. His hair felt limp and heavy as sweat gathered on his scalp, and his hands were shaking with unease. He'd set out all his ingredients on the counter before him, feeling like his eyes were too wild and too dry to fully focus. But he was looking for some indication that one of them were alive.

His gums were stinging at this point. Aggravated by his smoking and his dry mouth, by his persistent tongue agitating all the raw areas. His breath tasted minty and yet ashy – he'd brushed numerous times, thinking about those potatoes. He couldn't bring himself to eat anything just yet – he was too traumatized by last night's dinner to do so.

He flicked his unlit cigarette from side to side, flicks of tobacco stinging his dry lips. The paper was too wet and had wilted and cracked with his constant worrying. He wiped his mouth and clapped his hands together to motivate himself to get to work. He washed his nervous hands and glanced over at the collection of meats, vegetables and the bag of rice that he intended on using.

His chest felt nervous with anxiety as he began the process of loading rice into the cooker and turning on oil in a couple of skillets. He exhaled heavily, trying to shake off the anxiety that was spilling over into his lungs and interrupting his thoughts. Apprehensively, he began unwrapping the clear plastic covering freshly cut strips of beef, and began rubbing a mixture of spices onto them before coiling them into tubs of liquid mixtures to flavor them.

Sweat began to dribble down his temples and collect onto the ends of his lashes. He used his forearm to dash that away.

Amid the mixture of noises coming from the deck and the gentle hum of electricity powering the kitchen, he began attuned to a soft sound – sniffling.

It was so faint he wasn't sure where it was coming from, but he froze over the counter, hands paused over a collection of vegetables meant for chopping. His eyes darted from item to item, heart starting to pump feverishly.

_What was it?_

_Where is it?_

He swallowed hard, clenching his teeth together. He ended up spitting his ruined cigarette into the trash can nearby.

The sound was persistent. Muffled. It sounded like something was trying to get out of its containment; crying as it did so.

_Don't do this_, he inwardly begged. _Don't do this_…!

He turned to the stove with an apprehensive look, noting that the bubbling sounds were coming from the cooking rice. The lid seemed to vibrate noisily against the rising heat, and he told himself he was just imagining things. The crying seemed to turn frantic, and the lid jingled noisily. He opened the pot, steam wafting out like a hot slap across the face, and looked down at the bubbling water. The rice within still clung to the bottom – but there was something about the moving mound that made his veins fill with ice.

He hastily replaced the lid and turned up the flame.

He was sweating while he worked, listening to the crying ascend to horrified shrieking.

_It's only the steam, it's only the steam escaping from underneath the lid_, he reasoned with himself, eyes intensely focused on preparations. By the time he had the table set and platters set out, and commands issued for everyone to _get in here and fucking eat_, his hands were shaking noticeably as he returned to the stove to pluck the rice pot from the stove. He set it down onto a pot holder to fluff it as the crew stormed in to the table.

His stomach clenched tightly with agitation while his lungs seemed to tighten – he held his breath because it was easiest to do. With a wooden spoon, he quickly tipped the lid off and looked down at perfectly steamed rice. Every grain was soft and fluffy, and the smell was rich and steamy. His breath left him with a whoosh of relief.

He used the spoon to dig in to stir, but as soon as he did, blood welled immediately to the surface. It gushed over the white grain with a sharp hiss and splattered a thin line over his nose and cheeks, and he gave a startled yelp at the unexpected action. The surface of the rice seemed to wilt into an impression of a face staring blankly up at Sanji. There were two heavily hooded eyes, a welt of a nose and a thin mouth that opened slowly as steam pushed out from it. The liquid that colored every piece of grain within the pot seemed to bubble and smell like freshly cooked meat.

Almost in the same instant, the face in the rice seemed to wilt and deflate, leaving behind a grotesque mouth twisted in a death scream, eyes half closing in a deformed impression of an interrupted blink. Red liquid turned dark brown as it welled up from that open mouth and sputtered over twisted lips.

Horrified by what he saw, Sanji slammed the lid down over the pot. He heard the crew asking questions, felt their attention directed his way, but his heart was pounding like mad, drowning out their concern. He snatched up the entire pot and raced out from the kitchen, throwing the thing out into the sea. It splashed noisily, sinking immediately. Clinging to the railing, Sanji watched it sink with an expression of horror, heart strumming loudly.

His hand went to his chest as he sought to calm himself, utterly frazzled. Then his fingers combed up to his hair so he could clench it, staring with revulsion at the spot where the pot left light bubbling at the surface area where it had sunk.

"What's wrong?" Robin asked him stiffly, scanning the sea for trouble. Jolted by her sudden presence, Sanji instantly forced a laugh. Even for him, it sounded shaky and troubled, and he clasped his hands together with nervous action.

"I _burned_ the _rice_," he said reedily, feeling a twitch at his mouth. "I can't _believe_ it, I'm _shocked_ \- ! _A simple task_ – maybe my pot finally just decided to give up! Can't allow you guys to eat that…!"

Robin looked at him with intense concern, hands on the railing to steady herself. She studied his features then reached out to wipe her index finger over the splatter across his nose and cheeks. Examining the color for herself, she thought it was merely an accidental smearing due to his rather excessive sweating. She wiped her hand on her dress while Sanji quickly scrubbed at his face with his palms.

"I think we'll be fine without it," she assured him. "Don't worry about it."

"Excuse me," he then wheezed, hand to his heart once more as he strode off for the bathroom. Robin furrowed her brow with concern, then looked back at the others. While Sanji's behavior was noticeably upsetting, the rest of the dinner was just too good to miss out on. They'd be fine without rice.

: :

Once everyone had gone to sleep, save for Zoro manning night guard duty, Sanji locked himself in the kitchen. He examined every individual food in the pantry and the fridge, looking for some indication that it was alive. He opened the protective wrapping around every bit of meat in the freezer and prodded at the rice sacks stacked neatly in the corner. He shook every vegetable and jiggled every cheese block. He rattled every can and thumped on the fruit. Nothing gave the indication that it was alive, and he had the frightening thought that they only came alive as he was cooking it.

Maybe the island where he'd purchased these supplies had a sick secret. Something that they didn't tell the visitors when they exchanged currency for food.

Maybe it was just all in his mind.

Whatever the cause, he could feel his anxiety building in his veins at the thought of preparing more meals where the food came alive. How could he tell this to the crew? They'd develop aversions to meals, politely decline a plate - _starve_ themselves. He couldn't bear the thought of them starving themselves simply because the food he cooked was alive – not counting the occasional crustacean that was dropped into a boiling pot.

He began to chew on his nails – maybe this was some sort of penance for those things. Perhaps he could start avoiding the method, make up for the thousands of crustaceans that he'd cooked throughout the years in order to appease some food god.

Sanji swept his hair from his forehead and strained his ears to catch any sounds of something living amongst the pantry shelves. Realizing that his temporary madness was sure to hurt the crew, he hastily rewrapped and deposited all frozen meat back into the freezer, and quickly restocked the fridge. He cleaned up the mess and tightened the sacks of rice, setting them back into the spot against the wall.

When he finally allowed himself to go to bed, he stared up at the bunk above him – hearing the sounds of tortured screaming inside boiling pots.

By the time he normally got up to prepare breakfast, his eyes were dry and heavy and his body was twitching with intense unease. His hands were clammy and his throat tight. His gums stung with irritation. He ventured back to the kitchen with a heavy sense of dread. Pulling out various items needed to make pancakes, he focused on the task with half a mind attuned to any suspicious sounds that might happen as he cooked.

But the meal passed by without any trouble, and lunch happened in the same fashion.

He still hadn't bothered to eat anything – his stomach was in knots. It protested grumpily. So focused on this torture that he missed Robin's concerned looks and Nami's suspicious glances. Chopper asked to see him before dinner to check on his gums, and was upset with what he found.

"Are you even gargling as instructed?" the reindeer asked impatiently while Sanji struggled not to use his dry tongue to agitate the raw places on his gums. "Sanji, it's getting worse."

"I _am_," Sanji insisted with worry.

"Stop smoking."

"You ask the impossible."

"I've been listening to your stomach complaining since you got here," Chopper then said. His expression turned worried. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes, just…tired…"

"You look like a wreck. Are you sleeping?"

"…Yes…?"

Chopper frowned at him.

"Don't worry about it," Sanji then assured him, trying to smile with his lips closed. "Things are fine."

"Gargle more."

: :

By the start of dinner prep, his hands were shaking so much that it was difficult to grip the tools necessary for the matter. His eyes felt wild in their own sockets, his hair a frizzy mess from worrying it so much. A headache pounded mercilessly against his skull, and his stomach raged angrily with too much agitation and emptiness. But he poured the rice in and added water, then set the flame. He turned his attention to the meat – rubbing in a mixture of spices then adding tinfoil to the pan. He set that into the oven and turned to chopping vegetables. He cut his fingers a few times, causing him to curse viciously and restart the process with clean vegetables. He washed the cutting boards and knives with intensive concentration, then plucked out different ones.

As he was preparing to cut down celery, his ears caught an intrusive sound. Instantly, his blood rain cold. His entire body seized with alarm and his eyes widened as his breath caught. The sound was muffled, but it was coming from the oven. Amidst the sounds coming in from the deck and the smell of the sea, there was something different coming from the oven.

A burning, searing smell inflamed Sanji's senses. It didn't smell like normal meat – there was a whiff of something _different_ in that scent. It caused his flesh to rash with goosebumps. Tentatively, he looked over his shoulder to the oven window, the dark outline of the meat baking within catching his attention. He wasn't sure what the sound was – he could hear it bubbling, popping with excessive heat.

_Oh, please _no, he thought with terror. _Oh please _please_ please_…!

He lowered his knife, the sound wiggling through his rushing blood and building ringing in his ears. The headache grew intense just over his left eye, seemingly pulsing against it. His gums seemed to sear with the same sort of heat that was cooking the meat. Licking his dry lips, Sanji turned to face the oven. He couldn't identify the sound. He didn't want to hear it, but he didn't want the crew to be witness to it, either. These horrifying things -they were only in his mind. Something that only belonged to him – it wasn't fair if they were affected by penances meant for him.

Dropping to his knees aside the oven, he opened the door. The smell that curled out over him was enough to make him shudder, catching a retch before it could escape. _That wasn't the smell of normal meat_, his mind cried in horror.

The sound emerged as troubled moaning – but it could possibly be the heat expanding the meat and remaining fat that cooked within the pan. But Sanji could hear it – the sound of a human being in tremendous pain, moaning only wordless sounds against incredible agony. He went blind for a moment, almost fainting at the concept.

He used pot holders to pull the metal tray out from the oven, watching as steam rattled the tinfoil covering the hunk of meat that he'd rubbed with spices earlier. He almost misjudged the length of the tray to the holding ledges that kept it in place, but his arms were weak from lack of energy and his mind rattled so that when he quickly caught the tray from tipping, the weight of the pan took over.

With a tremendous crash of sound, it fell against the opened oven door and rolled down onto the floor, spilling out too much reddish-brown liquid that he knew shouldn't have been there in the first place. The tinfoil was no match against the weight of meat and was immediately crushed underneath the slab that rolled out against the floor and settled against the nearby cabinets.

It was a head – a once human head with melted flesh dripping and sticking against the floor, bubbling with heat. The eyes were bulging unnaturally, seared black and cracked – the direction in which they were looking was undetermined. The wide-open mouth revealed scorched teeth, gums cracked and withered against a pale white jaw. The ears were deformed and wilted down to the neckline, which was only a chaotically cut hunk of protruding spine and bubbling muscle. Tendons glistened underneath the kitchen lights, slowly retreating like slithering snakes up towards the scorched head.

That weird moaning sound persisted from the opened mouth, which twitched unnaturally due to the heat. The smell was thick and foul, almost burnt and rotting as Sanji froze with wide-eyed horror against the cabinet, unconsciously burning his hand as he set it onto the hot oven door. He pushed himself into a seated crouch as the moaning persisted, eyes bubbling from the inside as the jawline slowly began to tense and pull so that scorched teeth clacked together with a hard rattle.

Once the horrified static in his head began to clear to allow Sanji to accept that what he was seeing was true, he began to realize that the thing was talking to him. It took several seconds to listen to what it had to say.

"Eat me," it seemed to hiss on an interrupted gurgle. "Eat me, Sanji. I'm tender – _so tender_! _Eat me_!"

Sanji made himself think that he was imagining this. Lack of sleep, starving, driven mad by the past few days – he was only imaging this hiss of breath from this…this thing…and he wasn't hearing the words being uttered.

"_Eat me_, motherfucker. Fucking _eat me_!"

Slowly, on violently shaking legs, Sanji rose to his feet. Then he walked out from the kitchen, drawing out smokes with shaking hands. He abandoned the kitchen with its open oven door, mess of a head on the floor and kitchen counters littered with kitchen tools and half prepared ingredients.

It would take him nearly two weeks to finally eat something, his crew scrambling together to combine minds to prepare and cook for themselves while Chopper and Robin helped coax Sanji out of his mental breakdown.


End file.
